Stop Me If You've Heard This One
by scarlet phlame
Summary: So, an ex-Time Agent and a bleached vampire walk into a bar.


Stop Me If You've Heard This One

Summary: So, an ex-Time Agent and a bleached vampire walk into a bar.

AN: Yep... I've always wondered what would happen if Capt. John Hart and Spike met each other. R&R, please!

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Spike was a fool for love, in every sense of the term. From head to toe, clad in black and pleather and polyurethane, to the eye he reeked "bad boy" and "big bad". Lately, it seemed as if he was turning into something else. Somebody else. It was almost as if he was willing to fall for those a stranger to his emotions. Facades made of cigarette smoke and cheeky grins did little to downplay this particular misfortune of his. Rather than falling slowly, he fell, stumbled into trouble every other metaphorical step he took. He thought of her—the Slayer— in his every waking moment, drowned in memories of her golden hair and blue-pooled eyes. Her grin. Her laugh. The look on her face as she bashed his skull in. He bemoaned himself, curling fingers into fists. Dru had been right. He'd begun to think that even he had gone more carrot-top than her.

That itself was a pretty depressing thought.

After an entire night filled with thoughts of the Slayer and the actual woman herself tirelessly playing "hit the Spike" (seriously, did the girl get any damn sleep?), he'd begun to notice the hopelessness of his particular situation. Sighing, hand curled around a glass of beer, James Marsters whispering about "this town, baby" in his ear, he thought of Les Miserables. Thought of Romeo & Juliet, and Shakespearean works. The Bard himself. Dryly, he muttered under his breath. His life—or, rather, unlife, was like a drama itself.

First Cecily, now Buffy. Didn't he ever learn? Inwardly, he chided himself, swaying at the beckon of music surrounding him—or maybe he'd had a bit too much to drink already. He closed his eyes, conjured up her face. His blood sang, and he slammed his left fist down on the counter, shattered the glass clenched in his right. The bartender casually swept up the pieces in a flourish of dirty rag, and mounted another glass on the counter.

So, here he was. In a demon bar, in some random part of town, drowning the all-too-usual depressions in a gulp from a glass. Not exactly how he'd wanted to spend his Monday night, but, then again, when did Mondays ever go as one wished? Still thinking of images of the not-so-pleasant blonde yelling at him about being a pig or whatever, he downed another glass.

Frankly, he had no clue what the hell he saw in her.

Then, a guy, the brown-haired marching band reject he'd noticed before but never really seen took a particular interest in the seat next to him. Spike noted him in the corner of his eye, took another sip of his drink, then turned when he noticed something... wrong about his appearance.

The guy called out for a drink, and he scowled at the tall glass in front of him. It distorted everything in its path—sort of like a tiny, messed-up funhouse mirror filled with amber liquid. (Fun, indeed.)

"So. You come here often?" the guy asked, turning to face him. Spike eyed him. The guy—the man—the whatever—eyed him back. Reminded of a scene from "Asylum", he downed his glass and slapped it back on the mahogany countertop, turned back to face the shelved wall adorned with assorted drinks.

"Not anymore, now that I've seen you, thanks," Spike muttered, trying to ignore the fact that the guy was flirting with him. Hmm. Maybe if he wished really, really hard...

"You're too cruel to me," the guy said, hiding a smirk behind his arm as he moved to dampen the flow of a rivulet of sweat. "Captain John Hart, nice to meet you." He offered his hand. Spike didn't take it.

"Spike," Spike growled. "The pleasure's all yours, thanks."

There was a sort of awkward pause, and then the guy—Captain John Hart— took his hand back, shrugged off his marching band vest (seriously, what kind of demon would wear college-kid clothes?) and hung it on the chair behind him.

"Not giving a man a chance, then, huh?" John asked, smirking behind the distorted glass so that from the other side, Spike had a good guess it'd made him look like a clown.

"Nah. You're too old for me, anyway."

"Trouble with the missus, eh?"

"Tell me about it," Spike muttered, staring into his glass. Had the world felt this wobbly five minutes ago?

"Know how you feel," Marching Band said, shaking his head and downing the entire tall glass in one go. There was a long pause as he drank, and Spike half-watched, mainly out of amusement. It felt like years later when he put down the drink. "I mean, come on. I come back for him, right, and he's all, 'I've reformed, and I'm too good for you.' I mean, come on, right? He didn't seem to mind it when he was—"

Spike moaned. "I mean, she was rattin' on an' on 'bout how I'm always intruding on her territory. An' I'm a vampire. I'm s'posed to sleep in a crypt. See, that's the thing. She goes on an' on about how bein' with me was hurtin' her, but she didn't seem to care when I—"

"And he had a whole team, too," John continued, sighing and shaking his head. "I bet they're like a massive orgy center. And I was up for it! Uh, not literally, 'though."

"She's got this whole team, too. They all hate me," Spike added. "I mean, I'm always helpin' 'em out, y'know? Even showed Glinda she was fully human– 'an, mind you, I take liberties. I mean, she oughta be glad I haven't ripped all their throats out."

"Right," John agreed in a drawl. "I mean, all I did was clap a couple of handcuffs on the pretty one—well, they all were pretty, not the point—and the Captain goes all Terminator on me. Ridiculous!"

"I don' even know what I see in her. I mean, give me a bloody break! I'm changin'. Not my fault she's too blind to see how great of a thing she's got with me. See, the thing is, she thinks she's too good for me, when, the truth is, that I'm too good for 'er."

"Agreed." John took another swig of his drink. "'Sides. The odd kill, who does it hurt? What I do in my spare time—" he gestured with his hands, "is none of his business. So what if I run over a few Cardonshi aliens in my spare time? Not like anyone cares about them anyway."

"Exactly," Spike agreed. He took another sip of his drink, then paused and turned to face John. "Hey... you look awfully familiar." His brow furrowed. "'Ave I seen you 'round town?"

John shrugged. "Maybe on a model show." He flashed him a grin. "First time in Sunnydale."

"Make that Sunnyhell." They grabbed up their cups and toasted.


End file.
